Текст книги "The Driver"

Автор книги: Mark Dawson

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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 19 страниц)

21

Milton turned the key. The ignition fired but the engine didn’t start. He paused, cranked it again, but still there was nothing. He had serviced the car himself a month ago and it had all looked alright, but this didn’t sound good. He drummed his fingers against the wheel.

Eva paused at the door of her Porsche and looked over quizzically.

He put his fingers to the key and twisted it a final time. The ignition coughed, then spluttered, then choked off to a pitiful whine. The courtesy light dimmed as the battery drained from turning over the engine. He popped the hood, opened the door and went around to take a look.

“Not good?” Eva said, coming over as he bent over the engine.

“Plugs, I think. They need changing.”

Eva had insisted they come back to Top Notch. Julius had never let him down and the meal had been predictably good. The unease that Milton had felt after reading the Promises had quickly been forgotten in her company. He almost forgot the interview with the police. They had talked about the others at the meeting, slandering Smulders in particular; they agreed that he was well meaning, if a little supercilious, and she had suggested that he had form for coming onto the new, vulnerable, male members of the fellowship. She had cocked an eyebrow at him as she had said it. Milton couldn’t help but laugh at the suggestion. His troubles were quickly subsumed beneath the barrage of her wit as she took apart the other members of the group. The gossip wasn’t cruel but, nevertheless, he had wondered what she might say about him in private. He said that to her, feigning concern, and she had put a finger to her lips and winked with unmistakeable salaciousness. By the end of the main course Milton knew that he was attracted to her, and he knew that the feeling was mutual.

She watched now as he let the hood drop back into place.

“What are you going to do?”

“Walk, I guess.”

“Where’s your place?”

“Mission District.”

“That’s miles.”

That much was true. He wouldn’t be home much before midnight and then he would have to come back out in the morning – via a garage – to change the plugs. He was a little concerned about his finances, too. He had been planning to go out and drive tonight. He needed the cash. That obviously wasn’t going to happen.

“Come on – I’ll give you a ride.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You’re not walking,” she said with a determined conviction.

Milton was going to demur but he thought of the time, and the chance to get some sleep to prime him for the day tomorrow, and he realised that would have been foolish. “Thanks,” he conceded as he locked the Explorer and walked over to her Cayenne with her.

The car was new, and smelt it. It wasn’t much of a guess to say that her job paid well – her wardrobe was as good a giveaway as anything – but as he settled back in the leather bucket seat he thought that perhaps he had underestimated how well off she really was.

She must have noticed his appraising look as he took in the cabin. “I’ve got a thing for nice cars,” she said, a little apologetically.

“It’s better than nice.”

“Nice cars and nice clothes. It used to be Cristal and coke. The way I see it, if you’re going to have an addiction it better be one that leaves you with something to show for it.”

She put on the new Jay-Z as she drove him across town. Milton guided her into the Mission District, picking the quickest way to his apartment. The area was in poor condition; plenty of the buildings were boarded up, others blackened from fire or degraded by squatters with no interest in maintaining them. The cheap rents attracted artists and students and there was a bohemian atmosphere that was, in its own way, quite attractive. It felt even cheaper than usual tonight and, as he looked out of the window of the gleaming black Porsche, he felt inadequate. They shared a weakness for booze but that was it; he started to worry that there was a distance between the way they lived their lives that would be difficult to bridge.

The El Capitan Hotel and Hostel was at 2361 Mission Street. It was a three storey building with eighty rooms. The frontage was decorated with an ornate pediment and a cinema style awning that advertised OPEN 24 HOURS A DAY and PUBLIC PARKING – OPEN 24 HOURS. It was a dowdy street, full of tatty shops and restaurants: to the left of the hotel was the Arabian Nights restaurant and, to the right, Modern Hair Cuts. Queen’s Shoes and Siegel’s Fashion for Men and Boys were opposite. There were tall palm trees and the overhead electricity lines buzzed and fizzed in the fog.

“This is me,” Milton said.

She pulled up outside the building.

She killed the engine. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Yeah,” he said. “That was fun.”

There was a moment’s silence.

“So – um…?” she said.

He looked at her with an uncertainty that he knew was ridiculous.

“You gonna invite me up?”

“You sure that’s a good idea?”

She smiled. “What do you mean? Two recovering addicts? What could possibly go wrong?”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Really?”

“Maybe it was.”

“So?”

He paused, couldn’t find the words, couldn’t even think what he could have been thinking when he said it, and laughed at the futility of it. “Come on, then. It’s at the top of the building so you’re going to have to walk. And I’ll warn you now, save the view, it’s nothing to write home about. It’s not five star.”

“Not what I’m used to, you mean?” She grinned. “Fuck you too.”

She locked the Cayenne and followed him to the door of the building. The narrow heels of her shoes clacked against the pavement as she took his arm and held it tightly. He was aware of the powerful scent of her perfume and the occasional pressure of her breast against his arm. He opened up and accepted her hand as she pressed it into his.

The reception was incredibly bright; the fluorescent tubes did not flicker, shining down with unflattering constancy onto the occupants roaming the stairs and hallways, occasionally stopping by the front desk with its glass partition and signs apologizing for the inability to lend money and forbidding the use of hot plates in the rooms. The night manager, Ahmed, nodded at them from behind the glass enclosure. There were all manner of people here. For some, it was a permanent residence and, for others, a room for the night. Many of the residents had mental problems and Milton had seen plenty of disturbances in the time he had been there. No-one had ever bothered him – the cold lifelessness behind his eyes was warning enough – and the place had served him well.

They climbed the stairs together and he gently disengaged as he reached into his pocket for the key to his door. A short, unkempt man with stringy gray hair and an oversized brown jacket peered around a potted plant at them. He stared at them, vigorously rubbing his eyes, and, after Milton returned the stare with interest, he darted back around the corner again.

“A friendly neighbour,” he explained. He didn’t mention the man who was found hanging in his room across the other side of the building, or the woman who stood in her underwear in the corridor complaining about “the radiation.”

Milton opened the door. Inside was simple and ascetic but it was all he could afford. The owner was happy enough to take cash which saved him from the necessity of opening a bank account, something he would have been very reluctant to do.

Milton’s apartment was tiny: an eight-by-twelve room that was just big enough for a double bed with a chair next to it and a small table next to that. There wasn’t much else. The bathroom and kitchen were shared with the other rooms on the floor. Milton had always travelled light, and so storing clothes wasn’t an issue; he had two of everything and, when one set was dirty, he took it down to the laundromat around the corner and washed it. He had no interest in a television and his only entertainment was the radio and his books: several volumes of Dickens, Greene, Orwell, Joyce and Conan Doyle.

“What do you think?” he said, a slightly bashful expression on his usually composed face.

“It’s…minimalist.”

“That’s one way of describing it.”

“You don’t have much – stuff – do you?”

“I’ve never been much of a one for things,” he explained.

She cast a glance around again. “No pictures.”

“I’m not married. No family.”

“Parents?”

“They died when I was a boy.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was years ago.”

“Siblings?”

“No. Just me.”

He had a small pair of charged speakers on the windowsill; he walked across and plugged these into his phone, opening the radio application and selecting the local talk radio channel. The presenter was discussing the Republican primary; the challengers had just debated each other for the first time. The candidates were trying to differentiate themselves from their rivals. J.J. Robinson, the governor of California, was in the lead by all accounts. They were saying that the primary was his to lose. He killed the radio app and scrolled through to his music player. He selected ‘Rated R’, by the Queens of the Stone Age, and picked out the slow, drawled funk of ‘Leg of Lamb.’

“Good choice,” she said.

“I thought so.”

The room was on the third floor and the window offered a good view of the city. She stood and looked out as he went through the affectation of boiling the kettle for a pot of tea. It was a distraction; they both knew that neither would drink a drop. He took the pot to the table and sat down on the edge of the bed; she sat on the chair next to him. She turned, maybe to say something, maybe not, and he leant across to press his lips gently to hers. He paused, almost wincing with the potential embarrassment that he had misjudged the situation even though he knew that he had not, and then she moved towards him and kissed harder. He closed his eyes and lost himself for a moment. He was only dimly aware of the physical sensations: her breath on his cheek, her arms snaked around his shoulders as her mouth held his, her fingers playing against the back of his neck. She pulled away and looked into his face. Her fingers reached up and traced their way along the scar that began with his cheek and ended below his nose. She kissed it tenderly.

“How’d you do that?”

“Bar fight.”

“Someone had a knife?”

He had no wish to discuss the events of that night – he had been drunk, and it had ended badly for the other guy – and so he reached for her again, his hand cupping around her head and drawing her closer. Her perfume was pungent, redolent of fresh fruit, and he breathed it in deeply. He pulled off her sweater and eased her back onto the bed with him. They kissed hungrily. He cupped her neck again and pulled her face to his, while her hands found their way inside his shirt and around, massaging his muscular shoulders. They explored their bodies hungrily and Milton soon felt dizzy with desire. Her lips were soft and full; her legs wrapped around his waist and squeezed him tight; her underwear was expensively insubstantial, her breasts rising up and down as she gulped for air. He kissed her sweet-smelling neck and throat as she whispered out a moan of pleasure. He brushed aside the hair that framed her face. They kissed again.

His cellphone buzzed.

She broke away and locked onto his eyes with her own. Her eyes smiled.

“Don’t worry. I’m not answering.”

The phone went silent.

He kissed her.

Ten second later it rang again.

“Someone wants to speak to you.”

“Sorry.”

“Who is it? Another woman?”

He laughed. “Hardly.”

“Go on – the sooner you answer, the sooner they’ll shut up. You’re all mine tonight.”

Milton took the call.

“Mr. Smith?”

The boy’s voice was wired with anxiety. “Trip – is everything all right?”

“Did you see the police today?”

“Yes,” he said.

“They say you’re a suspect?”

“Not in as many words, but that’s the gist of it. I’m one of the last people to see her before she disappeared. It stands to reason.”

“They had me in, too. Three hours straight.”

“And?”

“I don’t know, I think maybe they think I’m a suspect, too.”

“Don’t worry about it. They’re doing what they think they have to do. Standard procedure. Most murders are committed by – well, you know.”

“People who knew the victim? Yeah, I know.”

Milton disentangled himself from Eva and stood. “You haven’t done anything. They’ll figure that out. This is all routine. Ticking boxes. The good thing is that they’re taking it seriously.”

“Yeah, man – like, finally.”

Milton took out his cigarettes and shook one out of the box. He looked over at Eva. She was looking at him with a quizzical expression on her face. He held up the box and she nodded. He tossed it across the room to her, pressed the cigarette between his lips and lit it. He threw her the lighter.

“There was another reason for calling.”

“Go on.”

“I had a call ten minutes ago. There’s this guy, Aaron, he says he was the driver who usually drove Madison to her jobs. He was the guy who didn’t show the night she went missing so she called you. He heard about what’s happened on the TV.”

“How did he get your number?”

“Called the landline. Madison must’ve given it to him.”

“You need to tell him to go to the police. They’ll definitely want to talk to him.”

“He won’t, Mr. Smith. He’s frightened.”

“Of what?”

“He knows the agency she was working for. He says they’re not exactly on the level. If he rats them out they’ll come after him.”

“You need to tell the police, Trip.”

“I would, Mr. Smith, but this guy, he says he’ll only speak to me. He says he’ll tell me everything.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow morning. I said I’d meet him at Dottie’s. Nine.”

Milton knew it: Dottie’s was a San Francisco institution and, conveniently enough, it was right at the top of Sixth Street, just a couple of minutes from the El Capitan. Milton yanked up the sash window and tossed the cigarette outside. “I’ll be there,” he said.

The relief in Trip’s thanks was unmistakeable.

“Don’t worry. Try and sleep. We’ll deal with this tomorrow.”

Milton ended the call.

“What was that?”

Milton hadn’t told her anything about Madison but he explained it all now: the night she disappeared, Trip and the days that he had helped her to look for her, the dead bodies that had turned up on the headland, the interview with the police.

“Did you have a lawyer there?” she said. There was indignation in her voice.

“I didn’t think I needed one.”

“They spoke to you without?”

“I haven’t done anything.”

“Are you an idiot?” she said angrily. “You don’t speak to the police investigating a murder without a lawyer, John.”

“Really,” he said, smiling at her. “It was fine. I know what I’m doing.”

“No,” she said, sitting up. “You don’t. Promise me: if they bring you in again you tell them you’re not speaking until I get there. Alright?”

“Sure,” he said. “Alright.”

“What did he want?”

Milton related what Trip had told him.

“Alright, then. This is what we’re going to do. I’m taking tomorrow morning off. I’ll drive you so you can get your car fixed and then you can go and see him.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“You don’t listen much, do you, John? This isn’t a democracy. That’s what we’re doing. It’s not open to debate.”

22

Eva drove Milton to the garage to pick up a new set of glow plugs and then to the meeting hall. She waited while he changed the plugs and until the engine was running again.

He went over to the Porsche. They hadn’t said much during the ride across town to his car and he felt a little uncomfortable. He had never been the best when it came to talking about his feelings. He had never been able to afford the luxury before, and it didn’t come naturally to him.

“Thanks for the ride,” he said.

“Charming!”

He laughed, blushing. “I didn’t mean—”

“I know what you meant,” she said, the light dancing in her eyes. “I’m joking.”

The words clattered into each other. “Oh – never mind.”

“You’re a funny guy, John,” she said. “Relax, alright? I had a nice night.”

“Nice?”

“Alright – better than nice. It was so nice that I’d like to do it again. You up for that?”

“Sure.”

“Be at the next meeting. My place for dinner afterwards. Now – come here.”

He leant down and rather awkwardly kissed her through the window.

“What’s up?”

“I was wondering,” he said. “Could you do me a favour?”

“Sure.”

He told her about Doctor Andrew Brady and his potential involvement on the night that Madison went missing. He explained that he had worked at St Francis, like she did, and asked if she could find out anything about him.

“You want me to pull someone’s personnel file?” she asked with mock outrage. “Someone’s confidential personnel file?”

“Could you?”

“Sure,” she said. “Can you make it worth my while?”

“I can try.”

“Give me a couple of days,” she said.

“See you,” he said.

“You will.”

* * *

Trip was waiting outside Dottie’s, pacing nervously, catching frequent glances at his watch. He was wearing a woollen beanie and he reached his fingers beneath it, scratching his scalp anxiously. His face cleared a little when he saw Milton.

“Sorry I’m late. Traffic. Is he here?”

“Think so. The guy at the back – at the counter.”

“Alright. That’s good.”

“How we gonna play this?”

“I want you to introduce yourself and then tell him who I am, but it might turn out best if I do the talking after that, okay? We’ll play it by ear and see how we get on.”

“What are we going to do?”

“Just talk. Get his story.”

“And then the police?”

“Let’s see what he’s got to say first – then we decide what we do next.”

The café was reasonably large, with exposed beams running the length of the ceiling with a flat glass roof above. The brickwork was exposed along one side, there was a busy service area with a countertop around it and the guests were seated at freestanding tables. Blackboards advertised breakfast and a selection of flavoured coffees. A counter held home-made cakes under clear plastic covers and quartered wooden shelving bore crockery and condiments. A single candelabra-style light fitting hung down from the ceiling and there were black and white pictures of old Hollywood starlets on the walls. The room was full. Milton assessed the man at the counter automatically: the clothes were expensive, the empty mug suggested that he was nervous, the Ray-Bans he still hadn’t removed confirming it. He was sitting so that he could see the entrance, his head tilting left and right as he made constant wary assessments of the people around him. Milton paused so that Trip could advance a step ahead of him and then followed the boy across the room.

“Aaron?” Trip asked.

“Yeah, man. Trip, right?”

“Yes.”

He looked up, frowned, stabbed a finger at Milton. “He with you?”

“Yes.”

“So who is he?”

“It’s alright. He’s a friend.”

“Ain’t my friend, bro. I said just you. Just you and me.”

“He was driving Madison the night she went missing.”

That softened him a little. “That right?”

“That’s right,” Milton said.

“I don’t like surprises, alright? You should’ve said. But okay, I guess.”

“Shall we get a table?”

A booth had emptied out. Aaron and Trip went first; Milton bought coffees and followed them.

“Thanks,” Aaron said as Milton put the drinks on the table. “What’s your name, man?”

“I’m Smith.”

“You a driver, then?”

“That’s right.”

“Freelance or agency?”

“Mostly freelance, bit of agency.”

“Police been speaking to you?”

“All afternoon yesterday.”

The hardness in his face broke apart. “I’m sorry about you being involved in all this shit. It’s my fault. It should’ve been me that night, right? – I mean, I’d been driving her for ages. The one night I didn’t turn up, that one night, and… I can’t help thinking if it had’ve been me, she’d still be here, you know?”

There was an unsaid accusation in that, too: if it were me, and not you, she would still be here. Milton let it pass. “You were good friends?”

“Yeah,” he said with an awkward cough. “She’s a good person. Out of all the girls I’ve driven, she’s the only one I could say I ever really had any kind of fun with.” He looked at Trip, and, realising the implication of what he had just said, added, unpersuasively, “As a friend, you know – a good friend.”

Milton found himself wondering if that disclaimer was insincere, the way his eyes flicked away from Trip as he delivered it, and he wondered whether Aaron and Madison had been sleeping together. The boy was certainly all broken up about what had happened. Milton wondered whether Trip had started to arrive at the same conclusion? If he had, he was doing a good job of hiding it.

“What do the police think has happened to her?”

“They’ve got no idea,” Trip said. “It took them finding the bodies on the headland for them to start taking it seriously. Up until then she was just a missing person, some girl who decided she didn’t want to come home, nothing worth getting excited about.”

“Jesus.”

“Why didn’t you call before?” Milton asked him. “She’s been gone three months.”

“I don’t know,” he said. “I felt awkward about it, I guess, you being her boyfriend and all.”

“Why would that matter?” Trip said tersely.

“No, of course, it wouldn’t—”

Milton nudged Trip beneath the table with his knee. “You said you could tell us who Madison was working for.”

“Yeah,” he said vaguely. “Same agency I work for, right?”

“Has it got a name?”

“Fallen Angelz. It’s this Italian guy, Salvatore something, don’t know his second name. I was out of work, got fired from the bar I was working at, I had a friend of a friend who was driving for them, I had no idea what it was all about until he explained it to me. I had no job, no money, not even a car, but I had a clean licence and I thought it sounded like an easy way to make a bit of cash, maybe meet some people, a bit of fun, you know? Turns out I was right about that.”

“How did it work?”

“Straightforward. The girls get a booking, some john all on his own or a frat party or something bigger, some rich dude from out of town wants company all night, willing to pay for the convenience of having a girl come to his hotel room. Celebrities, lawyers, doctors – you would not believe some of the guys I drove girls to see. Each girl gets assigned a driver. If it’s me, the dispatcher in the office calls me up on my cell and tells me where I have to go to pick her up. They gave me a sweet whip: a tricked-out Lexus, all the extras. So I head over there, drive her out to wherever the party’s at, then hang around until the gig’s finished and drive her back home again or to the next job, whatever’s happening. It’s a piece of cake: the more girls I drive, the more money I make. I get a slice of their takings. The agency gives all the drivers and girls a chart – kinda like a tip calculator – with the different hourly pay rates, everything broken down into separate shares for the agency, the driver, the girl. The drivers always get the least, about a quarter, max, but when you’ve got a girl charging a grand for an hour and she’s out there for two, maybe three, hours, well, man, you can imagine, you can see how it can be a pretty lucrative gig, right? I was getting more money in a night than I could earn in a two weeks serving stiffs in a bar.”

“What about drugs?” Milton asked.

Trip shot a glance at him.

“What about them?” Aaron said.

“They ever involved?”

He shifted uncomfortably. “Sure, man, what do you think? These girls ain’t saints. Some bring coke to help stretch the calls out beyond an hour or two. The dispatcher asks the john whether he wants any brought over – ‘party material’, they call it – they give it to me and I deliver it. Sometimes I’ll get some to sell myself – I’ve lived here my whole life, it’s not like I don’t know the right guys to ask, you know what I’m saying?” He delivered that line with a blasé shrug of his shoulders, like it was no big thing, but Milton wasn’t impressed and fixed him in a cold stare. “I ain’t endorsing it,” Aaron backtracked, “can’t say I was ever totally comfortable with having shit in the car but the money’s too good to ignore, you can make the same on top as you do with the girls. This one time, I was out of the city and we got pulled over. It was me and Madison, actually, way I recall it. Apart from the fact that they were looking for guys driving girls, going after us for procuring prostitution, we had three grams on us. I said she was my girlfriend and we got away with it.” He looked apologetically over at Trip.

“What about Madison?” Milton asked. “Does she use at all?”

“Yeah, man, sure she does.”

“Bullshit,” Trip said.

Aaron looked at Trip with a pained expression. “You don’t know?”

“She doesn’t.”

“It’s the truth, dude, I swear. They use, all of them do.”

Trip flinched but held his tongue.

“What does she use?”

“Coke. Weed.”

“Anything hallucinogenic?”

He shook his head. “Never seen that.”

“Alright. Tell us about her.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything.”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know, man, I’d driven her before, this one time, maybe a year ago. We hit it off right away. She’s a great girl, a lot of fun – the only girl I ever drove who I looked forward to seeing. Most of them – well, most of them, let’s just say they’re not the best when it comes to conversation, alright, a little dead behind the eyes, some of them, not the smartest cookies. But she’s different.”

“Go on.”

He looked over at Trip and then back to Milton. He looked pained. “Is this really necessary?”

“Come on,” Trip insisted. “Don’t pussy out now.” He must have known where this was going but he was tough and he wasn’t going to flinch.

He sighed helplessly. “Alright, man. I guess this was seven, eight months ago, before she went missing. The dispatcher said it was her and I was happy about it, I’d had the same girl for a week and she was driving me crazy. I went over to Nob Hill and picked her up in the Lexus, the same place we always met, and she got up in front with me, not in the back like they usually do. Sometimes there’d be more than one girl but it was just me and her this time and she talked and talked, told me everything that was going on in her life, said she was into books, I mean, that shit was never my bag, I ain’t the best in the world at reading, but she was into it big-time, loved it, writing too, and I thought that was kind of cool. Turns out that they put us together for two shifts after that. That’s like almost two whole days and nights. The third time out we were together the whole time. It was a day shift and it was quiet, just two or three gigs, and we kind of kept getting closer. The next night was the same. The shift ended, and we kept talking. I found a place to park the car, and she pulled out a fifth of vodka, and we drank it, then I had an eight ball of coke in the glove box and we ended up doing bumps of that, too. She said things about the work that I hadn’t heard from the other girls.”

“Like what?” Trip said, suddenly with a little aggression.

“That sometimes the calls are just about sex, sometimes they’re about keeping someone company – a john paying someone to hear him out. Said she liked those calls best.”

He cleared his throat and looked down at the table.

“Keep going,” Milton said, knowing what was coming next and hating himself for pressing, hating what it was going to do to Trip.

“Then – I guess it just sort of happened. We had the cash to get a hotel but I guess we didn’t wanted to wait. We had sex in the car.”

“And?”

“She said she liked it. I didn’t really believe it but then, the next time I was driving her, like a couple of days after that, it happened again.”

Trip stood abruptly. Without saying a word, he turned on his heel and stalked out of the café.

“I’m sorry, man,” Aaron said helplessly. “I didn’t want to say—”

Milton stared at him. “Keep going.”

He frowned, his eyes on the table again. “I had a girlfriend then but I ended it. I couldn’t stop thinking about Madison. I knew it wasn’t right, my girl was cut up and I knew Madison had a guy, but I couldn’t help it, neither of us could help it. I was getting pretty deep into working for the agency then and my girl had always been jealous about that, the girls I was driving, but Madison didn’t have any of that. No jealousy, just totally cool about it all. She got me, totally, understood where I was coming from. Sometimes I drove her and sometimes I didn’t, but it didn’t matter. We were both cool with how it was. When I drove her, we slept together between calls. Sometimes she’d pretend to be on call during the day but she’d meet me, we’d check into a hotel and stay there all day. We’d get room service, watch movies on the pay-per-view, I’d usually have a couple of grams on me and we’d work our way through that.”

“What was she like?”

“How do you mean?”

“Ever think she was depressed?”

“She had her moments, like all the girls, but no – I don’t think so. If you mean do I think she’s run away or done something worse, then, no, I’d say there was no chance. That’d be completely out of character. You want my opinion, I’d say that something bad has happened. No way she stays out of touch this long. She says nothing to me, nothing to your friend – no, no way, I ain’t buying that.”

“You know you have to tell the police, don’t you?”

“About us?”

“Yes, and about the agency.”

His eyes flickered with fear. “No way, man. Talk to the cops? You mad? Salvatore, he’s connected, you know what I mean? Connected. It’s not like I know everything about how it works, but, my best guess, the things I heard from the girls and the other drivers, he’s fronting it for the Lucianos. You know them, man? The fucking Lucianos? It’s fucking mafia, right? – the Mafia! Ain’t no way I’m getting myself in a position where they might think I was ratting them out to the cops. No way. You know what happens to guys they reckon are rats, right?”

“Your name doesn’t have to come out.”

“Fuck that shit, man! What you been smoking? That kind of stuff don’t ever stay under wraps. They got cops on the payroll, everyone knows it. My name would be on the street in minutes and then they’ll be coming over to talk to me about it and that ain’t something that I want to think about. Next thing, I’d be floating in the Bay with my throat cut. Fish food, man.”

“Alright,” Milton said, smiling in the hope that he might relax a little. “It’s okay. I understand.”